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SONGS TOWARD 
THE SUNLIGHT 



SONGS TOWARD 
THE SUNLIGHT 



BY 



HANFORD CHASE JUDSON 



k^ 




NEW YORK 
STEWART AND COMPANY 

1913 



Copyright 19 13 

BY 

Stewart and Company 



EDITION LIMITED TO 

FIVE HUNDRED COPIES, 

OF WHICH THIS IS 

NO. -^ 



/ 



/" KJ' 



©CI,A354S65 



To My Mother 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Song of the South Wind 1 1 

The Abandoned Farm 12 

The Mullein Stalk 13 

The New Age of Romance 14 

Ode on Beauty, the Awakener 22 

Laurels 30 

The Nation 37 

An Ode on Breaking Through 38 

The Spirit of the Metropolis 43 

The Song of a Hermit Thrush 44 

Factory Poems: 

the first going-in 46 

AT THE end of DAY 46 

THE MACHINE SHOP 47 

OVERTIME 47 

THE WINDOW OF THE TESTING SHOP. . .48 

THE DIVINE FIRE 48 

AN AUTUMN MORNING 49 

THE IRON FOUNDRY 50 

BEAUTY 50 

THE CROWD SPIRIT 5 I 

AFTER PROMOTION 5 I 

A VISION OF LIFE 52 

POST-CLIMAX 52 

THE EASTERN SLOPE 53 

Pere Jogues 54 

LoKE THE Destroyer 6 1 

Legend of the Guarded Door 62 

vii 



Contents — Continued 

PAGE 

To THE Maker of Days 71 

Four Great Gods 72 

The City Bound 78 

A Winter Sunset, Riverside Drive. . . .81 

Ode on War 82 

O Sweet Little Village 85 

Sweet Emogene 86 

From the Japanese 87 

Courtesy 87 

Genius 88 

Peniel 89 

Four Love Poems: 

love, let me walk with you 9o 

HAUNTED 90 

in new york 9 i 

light without warmth 9 1 

Communion of the Saints 92 

Sonnet 93 

Autumn 94 

Starset 94 

To A Friend with"TheLife of theBee" 95 

To A Summer Breeze 95 

On the Caribbean Sea ,96 



viu 



SONGS TOWARD 
THE SUNLIGHT 



Many of the verses contained in 
this volume are here published 
for the first time. A few, how- 
ever, have previously appeared 
in Scribners' Magazine, Outlook 
and the Springfield Republican. 
The author acknowledges to 
these his appreciation of the 
privilege to reproduce them here. 



SONG OF THE SOUTH WIND 

Lo, I blow across the meadows that are brown 

and sear with winter; 
And the grass grows green around me, full of 

joy to see me pass. 
Then I get a banquet ready for the young bee, 

wing unsteady, 
And I blow two hearts together, of a man and 

of a lass. 

Soft my hand is on the harp-strings of the for- 
est in the summer. 

And, with modulated music, I have lulled the 
world to sleep. 

By the pool the sunbeam brightens, where the 
water lily whitens. 

At the open doors of dreamland, I, my noon- 
tide vigil, keep. 

When the Norns, relentless, weaving, spin the 
autumn spell of dreaming. 

And my spirit feels the burden of the sleep in« 
ducing haze; 

When the withered leaves together whirl as in 
a mad endeavor 

To regain the twinkling gladness of the breeze- 
fanned summer days; 

When the thrush his farewell tuneth, sad as 
life's lament for Balder, 

While the purple tint of sunset on the crimson 
hillside dies, 

Then I turn me; yet my sorrow reaches out- 
ward toward to-morrow — 

I have buried springtime's treasure; yet remem- 
ber where it lies. 

II 



THE ABANDONED FARM 

Up on the hillside, companioned by loneliness, 

stands 
The deserted farmhouse. Grasses tall. 
Marjoram, meadow sweet, heal-all, 
Grow around it. On rickety doorstep fall 
Rose petals plucked by the passing hours with 

unseen hands. 

Mute relics, untenanted, cowpen and barn are 

near, 
Falling in ruin. The grape vine at will 
Crawls on the ground. The place is still 
For the passing of winds, the house wren's trill. 
And the song of the vesper sparrow, spiritual, 

sweet and clear. 

Thin echoes only are keeping the dwelling. 

The hearth 
Is bitter with ash. And naught that belongs 
To a home can be found; they are gone, the 

bright throngs, 
The loves, the sorrows, the laughs and the 

songs 
Of those who once lived here and died, or are 

scattered over the earth. 

Beyond meadows, the dark thunder horses 

loom. The leaves 
Turn whites to the wind. In the gathering 

gloom. 
The many-faced lightning peers into each room 
Of the grey, barren house that naught can 

illume. 
When the storm passes off, there's a solemn 

drip from the mossy eaves. 

12 



'Tis evening, 'tis twilight; the whip-poor-will's 

voice afar 
Awakes in the glen. Soon the answer springs 
From the meadow; then every dark, interval 

brings 
Nearer the never-seen tribe, till it sings 
Round the house for awhile and is gone, 'neath 

the sky-flame, the bright evening star. 



THE MULLEIN STALK 

Beside the shabby quarter's dusty street, 
Between the gutter and the stony walk 
That echoes aimlessly to human feet, 
Dawn out, night in, there grows a mullein stalk 
Of dusty green and most plebeian name — 
Its gnarled top made bright by yellow flame. 

Perhaps a child may bend it down to smell 
The perfume — if it has one — of the flower; 
We others pass, and there is none to tell 
That, famished, we have left a living dower. 
Joyless, we pass heaven by in sightless mood; 
Thin, hungry souls that faint for living food. 

Did God not know that man was made of 

clay. 
Weak-willed and foolish, ever seeking life, 
Yet ever in his seeking led astray. 
Giving the bread of peace for bitter strife, 
Selling his soul to be by failure lashed. 
He'd stand behind His beauty's flame abashed. 



13 



THE NEW AGE OF ROMANCE 
I. 
Spring broke to-day our icy gyves of cold; 
This wind has lingered long in lands of palm, 
And bringeth to New York the warming balm 
On wings alight with summer's living gold. 
The city drips with melting snow; 
'Tis late, but still the sunbeams show, 
In many joyous ways 
Beside their slant across the street's blue haze. 
That summer in her sun-light golden car. 
Swept on by gladsome crowds 
Of birds and tinted clouds, 
Is coming, — and is even now not far. 

A quick street-filling throng of men and teams 
Busy themselves like ants to bear away 
Cold February's drifts; while on them streams 
The beauty and the warming light of May. 
And everywhere that sunlight fills 
With cosy warmth the nooks and sills, 
I see bright summer's gleaming spies; 
They look at me with laughing eyes. 
With laughing eyes they well may look; 
They bait with dreams a golden hook — 
I hear the palm-green islands call. 
Wee anglers, ye've a cunning art! 
I've swallowed bait and hook and all, 
The hook is tugging at my heart! 

I see the purple huts and foamy beach 
Where deep the ocean swells; 

I see grand Fuji Yama's heavenward reach; 

I hear the clink of Chinese garden bells. 
Hung from celestial trees, 
Dream-voiced, they note the breeze. 

Scented-like lovely Sita's hair, 

14 



There comes a breath of evening air, 

In sweet Ceylon, its robes have trailed through 

groves, 
And lap me round with blossom scent of cloves, 
I see the Taj Mahal as white as snow, — 

Pale sorrow's perfect shrine, — 
I see the stony shapes, grotesque, that grow 

On that all fruitful vine 
That round Benares' temples old doth twine. 
The wander-wine is at my lips; 
And, east or west, the golden street 
Is but a coaxing to rny feet; 
For, east or west, there waits a ship — 
A this-world ship with plank and spar, 

A captain and a crew, 
A ship just in from ports afar 

And booked for places new. 
At dusk they'd tow us down the bay, 
And in the solemn gloom of night 
We'd leave Atlantic Highlands light 

To glimmer far away. 
Then, rocking 'neath the stars, we'd creep 
Far out upon the great Alone, 
The wonder-filled, the little known, 
The timeless sea, the snowy eye-browed deep. 

I hear the song, O sea, 

Thine islands sing to me; 

The pulse of spring in all my veins I feel, 

Calling, Away, away! 

Hearken, O sea, I stay, 
Kept, not by knowing thou dost not reveal 
To him who seeks illusive gleams 
Across thy foam the land of dreams; 

For longing In me doth belie 

The wisdom. O, I would be free. 
Green palms above the snow I see 

15 



Fair islands all around me lie. 
Beyond the roofs, the sky is blue. 
A cloud, shot through with sunset's gold, 
Seems a great billow. Breaking through 
Its shadowed silver, I behold 
The Argo. All its swinging oars 
Uplift it where the billow pours 
Its foam, and then it fades away — 
Mist-shrouded, into even grey. 

II. 

O Argo ! In thy happy time approved 
By gods and men was the brave call that moved 
The stalwart sons of Greece 
To seek the golden fleece. 
Lo, night to cheer them on their way 
Beyond the purple bourne of day 
Unrolled the wonder scripture of the stars. 
Pricked out in fire divine. 
They saw the annals shine 
With fates of tragic loves and holy wars. 
Orion and the Pliades, 
The keeper and the keeper's bear 
They saw, and grandly pictured there 
The god-like deeds of Hercules. 
Above their heads in burning script was shown 
That mortal man might win a starry throne. 
So on through rain of salty spray 
The buoyant Argo climbed the steep 
Of billows on its eastward way 
To Colchis o'er the hoary deep. 

And what did Thracian shepherds see 
When, twixt the blue and silver-grey, 
The Argo passed, at break of day, 
As fair as any dream could be? 
They saw dawn's radiant arms enfold 

i6 



And crown it with a wreath of gold. 

The sail was Tyrian in hue 

And, like a swan's, its breast was white. 

The oar blades flashed away the light 

And like a swan it swam the blue. 

It was a vision to surprise 

And light a shepherd poet's eyes. 

They wondered what it did presage; 

The gods seemed on a pilgrimage. 

III. 

Fair as some memory of youth, now gone. 
That breaks, unbidden, on an hour forlorn, 
O, joyous Argo, did the same sun's beam 
That now is setting ever dawn on thee? 
Or wast thou never but a golden dream 
Sent by some poet forth upon the sea 
Of human longing, marvelously fair. 
The measure of his sorrow and despair? 

Nay, thou wert real and cleaved the briny wave 
On many a lengthened voyage to far climes, 
And brought rich cargoes home. Then later 

times. 
Built better ships, that greater tonnage gave 
And higher speed. Drawn up upon the shore. 
Years came and went, but thou didst go no more ; 
Springs came and warmly breathed upon the 

snow, 
And all the world grew green. The ocean blue 
Gave back the glad-winged halcyons that flew 
Flashing above thee in the sun's bright glow. 
And often when the upward reaching tides 
Came curling in around thy battered sides. 
Dream-whispers faintly bade thee once more 

fare 
Forth on the sea in search of old-time joys, 

17 



Thee, doomed to rot and only fit to bear, 
On voyages, Imaginative boys. 

Then did a poet pass who understood 

How in hfe's pod the seed was quick and good. 

He freed thee, sent thee forth a vision bright, 

To sail forever in unclouded light — 

A joy that never is and yet might be, 

The cherished hope of hearts while hearts are 

young. 
It might have been the self same bard who sung 
Of life's bright golden age and Sicily, 

When Palas' eyes were like the skies. 
And Artemis had pale gold curls; 
When sweetest of the golden three 
Was Kore, when they all were girls. 
O, what a joyous youth had they 
To last an endless summer's day I 

IV. 

Life has a great capacity for joy; 
For, let the canvas darken, still doth live 
The painter instinct, eager to employ 
More gladsome tints of greenand gold and give 
Sweeter dream pictures to affirm the truth 
Of Eden — Enna — life's immortal youth. 

Here, in New York, 'tis night and cool. 
Once more has miser Winter sealed 
His snowy treasure, and congealed 
The waste in many an icy pool. 
And down the side street's gold-lit mirk, 
Dark bobbing shadows come and go 
Of hurried toilers still at work 
Around the carts and heaps of snow. 
How sharp the acid arc-light frees 
Against night's plate these tragedies! 



A clutched-at job, a loaf of bread, 
That wife and children may be fed. 
Hunger will knock again to-morrow. 
Life has a great capacity for sorrow. 

Yet even for this city of bright skies, 

Bright seaside skies with changing deeps of 

blue. 
The heavens grow wonderful with purple hue, 
Soft, rich and deep, peace giving to mine eyes. 

They overbend the square. 

Above whose entrance fair 
The arch, by the Republic set, doth rise 

In high triumphal state; 

A marble monument. 

Built to commemorate 
Its great, unselfish Father President; 
That we who pass might keep in memory 
The noble deeds from which our lifehassprung, 
Though, at this darkling hour, I cannot sec 

The lofty tablets hung, 
Treasuring love and wisdom from his tongue. 

Here, far away, I see the brave camp fires 
Lighted against oppression b* our sires. 
Yet even here hope falters. In these days 
Do we still bear the standard they did raise? 

V. 

Beams, from the bright republic of the stars, 
On snowy roofs and arch and square 
And wintry world, bathed in clear, silver air, 
A gold-fringed eye, the living planet Mars. 
We know not of thy life, O living star. 
Whether like ours or no; thou art so far. 
But O, our twilight comrade, thou dost ope 
New doors for us to silver fields of hope. 
19 



Earth, like fair Desdemona, dreams of thee, 

Bright, living planet Mars! 
Across the magic twilight she doth see 
A stirring epic written in thy scars, 
Thy glorious adventures. What fierce wars 

Lie buried under love-sweet bloom. 
Along thy great canals and niggard springs 
Of water, won by sacrifice, that brings 
Thee strength to hold, at quite arm's length, 

doom? 
Hast thou not now put by the pomp of gold 
From need of love and lovelike streams that 

hold 
Within thee for awhile the joyous breath 
To sing of love with? Can we doubt that death 
Has lost for thee its sting, so closely known? 
Here we are blind and ignorant of life; 
Our heart within itself is still at strife; 
Here each man toileth for himself alone. 

VI. 

Yes, happy is the man who finely spoke 
When telescopes thy glorious life had found! 
Blest family of men! Like a great oak 
It rains rich acorns on the fertile ground. 

A poet, scholars, leaders, these 
Have been its golden fruit. Among the trees 
Of the Republic's continent-wide grove. 
It is of that first setting out that throve, 
A type, our native bark, strong limbed and tall ! 
Yes, we have many such; we need them all. 
For there is much to do. Oh, what shall be, 
America, thy future joy in these. 

Thy worthy, fruitful trees? 
Fair native land, bright be thy destiny! 
With such, and thy new saplings every year, 
Thou art assured of love, hast naught to fear! 

20 



VII. 

But thou, O individual, alone. 
What hast thou for thyself that can atone 
For all that thou dost suffer? Art thou one 
With those bestirring early, while the dawn 
Still shows its crimson wings, and field and lawn 
Are dew-drop silvered, ere the coming sun 
Imperiously shoots the gleaming ray 
That lays command on all : Awake, 'tis day? 
Then thou dost know the eager joy that stirs 
Our human kind — God's young adventurers. 

And this green earth, with frost at either pole, 
This world, whose heart is still so warm and 

bright, 
This winking, eager eye of day and night, 
This handful of gold time, O living soul. 
This is thine Argo. In it thou art bound. 

O'er the immensity 

Of life's great sea. 

Until thy quest be found. 
Smite hard the stormy waves though they be 
steep ; 

To thee, to me, shall come 

The golden bringing home. 
When we shall hear the "Welcome thou," of 

sleep, 
And leave our traveler's oft wearied breath 
Between the quiet knees of high-throned Death. 

For there no want shall bind our eyes, 

Wnen the sweet sun doth rise, 

Gilding the columned dome 

Of our paternal home, 
Far yonder 'twixt the oceans and the skies. 



21 



ODE ON BEAUTY, THE AWAKENER 

I. 
This morn, with no imlavish hand, the Giver 
Pours golden day from the cerulean East. 
A flood of life and gladness like a river 
Seems washing all the world. A scented feast 
Is yonder meadow for the glad-eyed herd, 
Browsing, nose-hid, in clover and green grass; 
And in the leafy glen a lyric bird 
Will let the moment pass 
Beneath his golden spray. 
But he will load it with some ringing treasure 

In such full-throated measure. 
That burdened time can bear it not away; 
And so it lingers still and sings 
Again in sweet of growing things, 
And fills the place where from the pool's 
Green, mossy rim, the silver spill 
On spattered rocks below doth fill 
The air with sound that cools. 

I see the sunlight on the grass; 
I hear the wood thrush, clear and sweet; 
The airs that through the garden pass 
Seem breathed by bygone years and greet 
My sense as though to wake in me 
Some half-forgotten memory. 
I see ye smiling on your stalks; 
Have gone mad, ye hollyhocks? 

Whence is this heavenly joy? 
O, golden sunlight, do I stand 
Beneath the blue of the fairyland; 

I am not now a boy? 



22 



11. 

O seldom has such gladness welled 
Within me, or my eyes beheld 

A sight so sweet and fair; 
And why, when all the world doth ring 
With joy, should thought of sorrow bring 

A sense so like despair? 
Yet as the sultry noontide lays 
On far-off hills a veil of haze 
That hides their glory, so upon my heart 
Is laid a passing grief, as though a dart 
Had pierced me and the bleeding slowly healed. 

No longer garden, wood and field 

Rejoice in light of Eden sweet; 
And all my comfort is that soon my feet 
Must cityward return, although, "Alas," 
Murmurs my soul, as one who, having known 

Such light as late had shone, 
Goes forth into a world whose heaven is brass, 
Who, growing old, the best of life must leave. 

III. 

Now sweet hope bids me cease to grieve. 
Saying that this, life's Eden, does not pass 
Like innocence or joyous youth that knows 
Naught of life's deeper joys on its birth throes; 
But grows more bright in sorrow. Sorrow gives 
This promise to the heart that bravely lives, — 
A gleam of wonder never dreamed by youth. 
And gave it not those openings of truth 

And intuitions deep that led 

The lonely Israelite who fed 
The flocks of Jethro forty years and came 
Ever more near the strangely living flame 

And wondrous, unexpected hour 
God wakened him and sent him forth, a power? 



23 



If life gives sorrow, sorrow beauty gives; 

Beauty again gives soul by which man lives, 
And none on earth's most fertile plain 
Lives severed from the mystic chain 

That binds this world to God. 
Lo, under starlight's silver rain, 
The tree of life grows green again 
Where quiet dreams have trod. 

Though mind remember not. And though 
bright day, 

The flaming falchion bearer, bar the way. 
Yet not by bread alone 

Is human life sustained and given increase — 

Our birth was there in Eden; we have known, 

With keener strife than Nature's, deeper peace. 

IV. 

Under the sun-lit, tropic clime, 

In the deep hollows of the sea, 
Dim and warm, 

Where the even- flow of time 

Is not noticed, lives a swarm 
Of wee builders, coral polips, leaving silently 

Cells as white as rime. 
And still they build their marble homes 

Over empty catacombs, 

Until an island rises free; 

Yet through the dim, untroubled hours 

Of their livss there comes no gleam 

From the island; never dream 

Visits them of light, of flowers, 
Of palms, majestic in their upward reach 
Or long-winged combers curling on the beach. 



24 



V. 

O, not by bread alone 
Is human life sustained and given increase. 
Behold this weight of marble, this cold stone, 
This winged Nike from the isles of Greece. 

A strange, ethereal flame 
Quickens its graceful limbs and glistens through 
Its never wearied wings. Across the blue, 
Fluttering, to the marble prow it came, 
A witness, like an angel, sent to show 

A more abundant life and joy. 

Defacing time cannot destroy 
Its beauty, for its every line doth glow. 

Living, it giveth life 

Above the petty strife 
Of mortals that the pangs of hunger know. 

VI. 

Through this abounding life within, 

Man is a conqueror; 
Not charms of dalliance can win 

Nor weariness deter. 
For in Its service, 'tis his fate 
To labor early, labor late; 
His ships leap out across the sea; 
His furnaces make red the hills; 
The echo of his industry. 

The hollow heaven fills. 
Not even the unstable air 
Can daunt this mighty traveller. 

VII. 
Who would build bridges for applause alone .'' 
W^ho would build ships to bound across the sea. 
If men desired to tarry? How should be 
The wide-spread, open prairies plowed and 
sown, 

25 



If hunger that must still be fed 
Came not our children's playground near, 
If plowmen, risking weather, did not hear 
The far appeal of nations needing bread? 
Blind labor kills; it even seems to soil 
The very soul: use is the mead of toil. 

VIII. 

Love sets the heart of youth on fire 

To leave some lasting good for man; 
Its beauty stirs him to aspire, 
Perhaps with well-made bridge to span 
Some danger flood. Soon he doth find 
That, if he would at all succeed. 
He, under ruthless heel, must grind 
Life's deadly viper worms of greed. 
But O, too often with them bleed 

Unheeded loves and so he loses ruth. 
By slow degrees he groweth old; 
The levers of his heart grow cold. 

Until he counts his gains as life's enduringtruth. 

The poet from his watch-tower life austere 
Looks forth upon the world beneath the sun, 
A seer of great deeds and when is done 
Some deed the spirit's life revealing. 

With blithely cadent voice, 
His golden trumpet, loudly pealing. 

Bids all who hear rejoice 
That through the cinders' arid dearth, 
Between the giant knees of toil. 
The roots of life, still finding soil, 
Keep fresh our human beauty on the earth. 
And thus he husbands life; for life is seed, 
And to increase, it must be widely sown. 
If but the song on whose blue wings 'tis blown 
^ome with the joyof springtime, heartswill heed 

26 



And quicken into green. The soul doth need 
The uplift more than use. No tower, no dome 
Can satisfy the inner need of man. 
For though his hands must build, his heart must 

plan; 
In nothing mortal can he make his home. 
So, by the builder wise, the dome is given 
A columned lightness whispering of heaven; 
And, from his hands, the tower in beauty seems 
As though it grew, a building out of dreams. 

Life's plan is only life; the deed that shows 
A living soul that bravely through it glows. 
Life catches from the all-engulfing deep 
And gathers safe in beauty's arms of gleam. 
Where the bright joys of endless morning 
stream, 
Where time is laid asleep. 

Look in the city square; beneath the green 
Of drooping, leafy trees, where checkered shade 
And golden light on walk and bench are laid, 
The statue of a hero may be seen, 

Nobly conceived and made. 
The admiral and sculptor both are dead; 
But ageless here the statue still doth stand, 
And the great admiral's uplifted head 
Is stamped immortally with brave command. 
Even the wave that lifts the buoyant stone 
Is felt beneath his feet; the salty breeze 
That stirs his hair and rolls his coat is shown. 
Though breathless all around him hang the 

trees. 
Scant heed is given by the passersby; 
But to the urchin who, with eager eye. 
Looks up the noble presence to admire. 
The statue lives and bids his soul aspire. 
27 



IX. 

O, more than rubies red, or yellow gold, 
By cold Alaskan rivers found, are worth 

To cities of the earth, 
Good statues by which human worth is told. 
But O, the pity, if the statue takes 
No beauty from the thing it represents. 
It standeth cold and of itself it wakes 

No love or reverence; 
For man's heart clings to beauty. Lo, we find 
This memory, deep in the city's mind. 

Of life's immortal youth; 
This leafy gem, this tulip planted square, 
This altar green to truth, 
Cherished and made more fair — 
The city's inmost self. That great, crude heart 
Here pulses all day long in endless flow 
Of traffic, borne from terminal and mart; 
Across it there's a ceaseless come and go. 
Yet, pause beside the fountain's rise and fall. 

Whom do its ripples call? 
There, over leafy twigs, a tower doth fill 
Its corner with a touch of old Seville; 
Here, like America, upbuilded fair, 
A tower looks forth from columns high in air 

And golden crowned. 
Hark, as the hour awakes, upon the square 
Sifts quietly the solemn dew of sound; 
Through far-off streets there swells 
The chime of bells. 
What presence through the open window floats, 

By whom sweet peace is given? 
The fairy queen and her attendant notes, 
On their way back to heaven. 



28 



X. 

Men raise their buildings as they will; yet see! 
How oft from churchyard, court or bend, 
Great steps for giant feet ascend 
From roof to roof, with all the majesty 
Of titan cities in the land of dream. 
And here and there, and over all 
The buildings, snowy plumes of steam. 
Like ribbon banners, rise and fall. 
They float away, and still they stay: — 

It is some festival. 
The city, wonderful and new. 
It cannot hold; it sets me free. 
Come, take this upward flight with me. 
One last great step, the next step Is the blue. 

XL 

I know the rose will last a day; 
That towers and domes will pass away; 
That statues, flake by flake, will rust; 
That all the songs her poets gave 
To Greece, and statues, could not save 

Her kingdoms from the dust; 
That Pergamus, though Satan's seat, 
Was glorious with garlands sweet, 
Of marbles owning grace divine; 
For still the fragments of them shine. 

And each to us of heaven's beauty sings. 

Quick, lay thy hand upon these lesser strings; 
Their trembling hush: — 

No eye in Greece, 'mid all her beauteous things. 
Beheld the burning bush. 



29 



LAURELS 

Lo, I beheld, in vision or in dream, 
A place of wonder, near a hoary wall, 
Pierced by a gate. The inner world with gleam 
Was hidden, while a softened light did fall 
Outside, as sifted through the living gold 
Of a grove's tree-tops, wind-swept, mystic, old. 
That towered a joyous wave, and broke in 

sheen 
Of mist, behind the mossy wall between 
Green earth and heaven. My soul knew well 

the place. 
Fair courts of her whose three times lovely face 
I had not seen, being unclean and blind. 
Down to the world from it a path doth wind, 
Seeking the feet of men. Soon, on the air, 
Far-heard, yet sweet, arose this tuneful prayer: 

"America, fair native land, 
Reach up again and, with no grudging hand. 
Pluck from thy sacred grove its living boughs; 

For thou must twine to-day 

Another wreath of bay, 
A wreath with pointed leaves for Peary's 

brows. 

Choose the green sprigs with care; 

Let it be bright and fair 
As the twin wreaths that thou didst lately twine 

To crown with leaf divine 
Thy sons who won dominion in the air. 

"As thine own eagle soars 
Where the red morning pours. 
Drawing against the sky a noble ring, 
The quick-eyed Wrights have found, 
Upspringing from the ground, 

30 



That man may safely soar on buoyant wing 
But now thou needest other bays; 
Another deed demands thy praise. 

"Not that thy sisters come with sparkling eyes 
To greet thee on his glorious emprise, 

Nor that he did explore 

A field untrod before — 
What is it, of itself, to find the pole? 

'Tis for no easy thing 

Performed, the praises ring; 
The laurel still is sacred to the soul. 

"Man has no lasting breath; 

Soon is he touched by death. 
Soon must we all explore the boundless night. 

Deeds that brave men achieve 

Still lead us to believe 
Our hope as though they left a star alight. 

And God for crowning such has given 

His golden bays from groves of heaven." 

It ceased. At once another voice was sent 
That, coming on quick wings of discontent. 
As an accuser asked, "Why laurels here? 
Though these be noble deeds, the heart of life 
Grows tragically deep. In endless strife, 
Brave thousands pass unscathed through want 

and fear. 
To them, in truth, God's golden leaves are due. 
And would you crown the few? 

"The Greeks, bright sun-lit children of the 
day's 

Azure and gold, might well reward with bays 
The stalwart victor in each game. 
Who, in Apollo's or in Zeus's name, 



31 



The trophy bore away. 

For, whether plucked from leaf divine 

That grew by Delphi's marble shrine, 
Or plucked from olive, parsley, oak, or pine, 
The crowning still was a religious rite. 
Apollo, ruling in his golden pale. 
Reached out to none beyond the misty veil. 
We have inherited both day and night; 
Our bays must last, although the sun from 

sight 
Must be consumed with all the starry host. 
And think you. Father, Son and Holy Ghost 

Bend down heaven's sacred trees 

Even for deeds like these?" 

"For deeds like these?" He who first spoke 

replied. 
So quickly, pained surprise could barely hide 
Under his words. "Are they not such as try 
The soul through all its strengths? Grim 

wastes of snow, 
Full-filled of gloom and desolation, lie 
Hemming it in, or smother blizzards blow 
Howling in many a maniacal note, 

While deadly cold 

Its bitter spear doth hold. 
Relentless, waiting, at the body's throat. 
There every step is but a new free will 
That keeps its chosen good in spite of ill. 

"'Murmur the winds? Soon they will shout 

aloud, 
'Turn back, the snow is winding a white 

shroud.' 

" 'Does the cold silence utter forth no sound? 
'Turn back, no eye will look upon thy mound.' 

32 



" 'Is the aurora flashing bright and clear? 
Do wondrous streamers, green and ruby, wave? 
'Thus have they flung their tints from year to 

year. 
Thus ever shall, above thy nameless grave.' 

"This heard and heeded not, upon a path. 
Bitter to follow, proves a mystery. 
The man is dust; for him Life never hath 
Crowned any deed, but that itself might be 
Through time made manifest. God does not 

lack 
Glory to cheer His saints in Paradise; 
But laurels, to encourage mortal eyes. 
Are given with heaven's gleam, and render back 
Their light to Life. Yet, when the leaf divine 
Crowns any deed, the doer, too, must shine." 

The cold Accuser even this withstood, 
Asking, like one who feeds a sceptic mood, 
"And is all free will love in exercise? 
Love growing stronger? fitting life to fill 
That end, religion's golden hope, that lies, 
Vaguely, for all these years, above us still? 
Then twine it wreaths; but are wreaths needed 
here? 

This age has grown 
Wise through experience ; the pole brought near 
By many who have sought it without fear, 

And the way thither shown. 
Perhaps an even higher meed Is due 
The many lying there in graves unknown. 

And would you crown the few? 

"Hearken ! not unexpectedly we hear 

A voice from the cold South. 'TIs telling clear 

That Amundsen for Norway has attained 

33 



Earth's other pole and a like honor gained. 
That this achievement on the shining heels 
Of the first comes so quickly, but reveals 
The time as ripe for such, the age 
As rich in clever means to hold 
The body's warmth against the cold 
Of Arctic winter and assauge 
The rigours of the dash across the ice. 
So, with high honors, will it not suffice 

That, through the golden sweep of time, 
Each northward looking eye shall see 
The gallant Roosevelt with spars of rime 
Outlined against the drear immensity 
Of whirling storm or moonlight, silver-blue? 
And far beyond it, where the bright stars swing 
Around Polaris, on earth's smallest ring, 
Peary, in furry hood, will break in view? 
Or southward, see the no less gallant Fram, 
Hostage of winter, locked amid the jam 
Of frozen ice floes, the dark season through; 
While Amundsen is, with his hardy crew, 
Beyond the pallid mountain tops that rise. 
Like titan spectres, toward mysterious skies? 
Nobly achieving, each attained his pole. 
Could they have done it merely for the soul?" 

The question lay like lead upon my heart. 
When, over seas, spake thus a voice apart. 
Full toned, like England's, yet in mourning, 

low : — 
"My stalwart sons lie buried in the snow. 
My hands have built a cairn in the cold zone 
For Scott and for his men; but one — 
Alone the bitter winds of winter know 
Where Oaks is laid. And the last words he 

spoke 
Add to my honor. O, my hearts of oak I 

34 



My worthy Captain Scott ! His record fine, 
With the fair pages of my youth will shine; 
But, O, it shows how great a loss is mine." 

Then, lo, the holy silence near me broke 
In music as the hermit thrush's sweet. 
Love made me tremble; for a clear voice spoke, 
Sending this message forth with winged feet : — 
"Nay, they are worthy of the mighty womb 
That in days recent bore 
Them equal to thy best of yore, 
Mother of nations honored by their tomb. 
And thou, so wont to seek the lion's share 
Of glory, in their ill success 
Art become first, if still thy heart doth bless 
The spiritual light of romance fair. 
Victors have crowns; but those who nobly fail 
Are like the saints; they comfort and renew. 
The grim-eyed fates that could not make them 

quail, 
Weighed light as chaff 'gainst what they tried 

to do, 
Make its true greatness plain. And though 

we see 
The haggard faces 'neath the meager shed, 
Under the driving storm, ere hope has fled. 
And Oaks, who, knowing that there still may be 
Some chance without him, and with weakened 

hand, 
Holding aside the curtain fringed with rime, 
Turns, bravely saying to the little band, 
'I'm stepping out and may be gone some time,' 
Ere, deaf to all dissuasion, he doth go 
Out in the storm, now wraith-like clad in snow. 
Now seen no more. And they who with calm eyes 
Watch the storm's lengthened hours until hope 

dies; 

35 



Our spirits catch a voice that hails with cheer; 
And Oaks is coming baclc, his forehead bright 
With summer poured from azure soft and 

clear, 
Behind him, brooks and meadows, bathed in 

light. 
Love calls it home, that travelers hold dear." 

It ceased. The Doubter, not yet satisfied. 
Once more, though now half-heartedly, replied: 
"Such things make this age rich; but do they 

show 
The immortality of life?" 

"Life needs," 
This, ringing sweetly, did the voice bestow, 
"No proof while it is active. While it heeds 
The spirit's trumpet call, the living glow 
Goes with it, and it walks through mundane 

things 
As though 'twere canopied by golden wings. 
Man is, in action, greater than he knows, 
And, careless often, scornful of the soul; 
This age is nobly seeking many a pole, 

A splendid life it shows. 
Great actions — they are born beyond the sun — 
Elude the guerdon, slip away from praise. 
If the age give the doer gold or bays. 
The age but takes its part in what is done." 



36 



THE NATION 

Though by the great world's hoary years, 
The years that thou hast known seem few, 

Thou wast but wise; hfe doth renew 
Its youth in thee. Red, white and blue, 

Shot up above thy head appears. 

Life's flag of love and blood and tears. 

A golden crown to life's first youth 
God's fatherhood did symbolize; 

But thou wast born with clearer eyes. 
And seeing that the crown denies 

Too oft God's justice, love and rutJi, 

Grew up and found a higher truth. 

Thou didst not welcome eagerly 

Life's disillusion. Thou didst guess 

Little of how, the wilderness, 
Through thee, all other lands should bless. 

Behind, lay heart break's salty sea. 

Before thee, life's reality. 

Yet, if life truly be worth while, 
Then is life's highest truth the best. 

Though fears forbid the soul the quest 
For truth by which alone 'tis blest. 

Far more than dreams it can beguile 

Our lips to frame a human smile. 

The starry flag that ripples sweet 
Above thee is life's brighter crown. 

Its richer pageant and renown. 

Lo, princes come and lavish down 

Laurels of praise both just and meet 

For thee, green treasures round thy feet. 



37 



AN ODE ON BREAKING THROUGH 

I. 

I saw my evening star, grown dimly red, 
Sink down among the dark, devouring pines 
That clutched it on the hills. "Now beauty's 
dead," 

My spirit cried, "and though heaven faintly 

shines 
With embers from the altar, round my brow 
I feel the heavy wreath that failure twines. 

"Beauty is dead, is dead," I cried, "and now, 
Day that awakes all youthful hearts to joy 
Will show me to my shame. O spirit thou 

Hast left me naked ! Who shall now destroy 
My gods of hell that oft by thee were driven 
Back to the void? What shall my pain alloy? 
Thou wast my present, thou my future heaven." 

II. 

And no forgetfulness I found in sleep. 
For light was gone, and ugly visaged dreams 
Passed my unguarded doors. I heard the 
sweep 

Of Sorrow's weeds about my house, whose 

beams 
Creaked under heavy darkness. Reason slept, 
And all my guard was that dull sight that deems 

That life is as it sees it. No thought kept 
Apart from me the vampire. Fear, that preyed 
Upon my helpless soul. Above me swept 



38 



The clouds of hell that I, myself, had made, 
That I might know the joy that beauty gave me, 
Its colors brightened by contrasting shade; 
And not a star shone down from heaven to save 
me. 

III. 

Then breaking from the east, the golden flame 

Of morning lit my window; it was day. 

And donning scorn that I might bear my shame, 

I started out; but ever in my way 
My eyes beheld, as in reflecting glass, 
A darker self that held me as at bay, 

A backward walking bitterness. Alas, 

Love could not go with scorn and it was plain 

What I should be, if love should from me pass. 

By this, my shadow self that knew no pain. 
Nor could I down the shadow till, despairing, 
I heard a voice that cried, "You strive in vain; 
Its strength is in the robe that it is wearing." 

IV. 

"What, must I travel naked," then I cried, 
"And bend my back beneath the rods of scorn?" 
"Yes, you must travel naked," Truth replied. 

"No coward enters through the gates of morn 
Aflame with beauty; nor do seekers run 
Bravely from their own quest. Would you 
adorn 

Your life with the live joy of heaven, yet shun 
Earth, where its seed is sown, to dream at ease? 
Faugh, you would make a brave Endymion. 

39 



Mortals attain to life but by degrees, 

By piercing through death that doth surround 

it. 
He must besiege some hell who hopes to seize 
The crown of beauty; there the Master found 

it." 

V. 

Then I, of warlike race and winter born, 
Took the humility of those who turn 
The other cheek, and was a thing forlorn 

That, scorning, I, myself, would from me spurn. 
Then came a v^oice of laughter on the wind 
That mocked me through the leaves and made 
me burn 

With deep contempt for all I sought to find — 
God, beauty, love and all that tongue can name. 
"Henceforth," I cried, "I shall not leave be- 
hind 

Or fear or joy, or love or hate or shame. 

But take them all and shun and shunning, flee- 

ing." 
And lo, once more the light of beauty came 
And I remembered only plenteous being. 

VI. 

At bright of noon there fell on the dry street 
A flash from silent heaven that thrilled my 

sight. 
Unnoticed 'mid the throngs it burst and, fleet 

As levin, it was gone. But still its light. 
Sheathed in the sunshine, lived, a wonder gleam 
That gave to outcast faces brows more bright 

40 



Than Caesar's, where he stands in pallid 

dream. 
They shone with him, born blind, who never 

knew 
The joy of day till Christ unveiled its beam, 

After the deathless words in which he drew 
The barb of evil from its wound, revealing 
The goad that prods self-righteousness, breaks 

through 
Our armor, drives life toward its healing. 

VII. 

Degrading failure, crime and hideous lust, 
Life shows them as a beggar shows his scar. 
Show me these things in action 'mid the dust. 

Give me the eye to see them as they are; 
Lo, they will bring a beauty to my sight 
As solemn as the rising of a star. 

"He lies," I hear, "behold him now in flight; 
He will not stoop their burden to receive. 
He calls this beauty, but he sees it blight." 

Aye, blight it is, indeed. Do not believe 

My words, for beauty still is where we find it; 

But follow that with me, we may achieve 

A knowledge of the flame that burns behind it. 

VIII. 

I rose up early; in the breathless heaven 
I saw the still-bright star of morning shine 
Alone, for its companions had been driven 

Back to the deeps by day, whose lifted sign 
Silvered the east. The ragged, leafy wood 
Drew, with the barn's dark ridge, a broken ^ine 

41 



Across the sky. As black as midnight's hood 

Lay all below; above it, all was bright, 

A lamp-lit, pale blue dome, while red as blood, 

Appeared dawn's pinion tip spread, as for 
flight, 

Across the vale where bearded mists were blow- 
ing- 

The dew-wet grass seemed pallid in the light 

That up and round the sphered world was flow- 
ing. 

IX. 

I hear it said, "Dawn's beauty well may please; 
But what has it to do with life's hard throes? 
What part with it has failure, shame, disease? 

Why speak of ugliness 'mid dawning's rose?" 
Why speak of these ? Though I may shun them 

still. 
No loathing soiled me in its cleansing flows, 

Nor, while the glory of the dawn did fill 
My memory, could I remember fear 
Or count, for me, the direst fact as ill. 

For, through the lifting of the light, drew near 
A solemn Presence, deeper than all telling; 
And while I still was clean it did appear 
At every window of life's mighty dwelling. 



42 



THE SPIRIT OF THE METROPOLIS 

A spirit is abroad to-night; 
Its breath is in October's wind. 
A sense of new lift, undefined, 
Awakes my summer wearied mind 
To zest and other eyes are bright 
In Broadway's flood of golden light. 

So thrilled I am with energy, 

I look, and, looming 'gainst the sky. 

Its seat a building lifted high, 

A musing spirit sits. His eye 

Is fixed as one who joys to see 

New labors and great things to be. 

In calendars, our New Year falls 
'Mid way 'twixt winter's snowy wings. 
New York's new day Is that which brings 
New life again and open flings 
The future's doors, and once more calls 
Her sons to markets, wharves and halls. 



43 



THE SONG OF A HERMIT THRUSH 

The green and brown heart of the woods is 

here; 
And the great trees fend, from the myriad feet 
Of the summer winds, the quiet sweet, — 
Its still, leafy atmosphere. 
Bright mottling flecks of morning's gold 
Are scattered on leaves and tree trunks, tall, 
And, under the fern's green bending, fall 
To brighten the springy mould. 
But a deeper hush is born of the hush. 
More potently still. Hark, a thrush! He 

sings 
Like a spirit whose nesting is peace. 
Increase, increase, O heart of me ! Hold 
This heavenly music I hear ! It springs 
From the crag where the root of my spirit 

clings 
Like a pine's, and I thirst for its clear. 
O singer, O seraph, O reedy-throat. 
What master hath taught thee that piercing 

note? 
Beneath it the turrets of heaven appear, 
As high as the reach of a soul, and bright 
With a shadowless gleam, that the sun's noon 

light 
Of June's best day cannot bring to a sphere 
Of shadow-like sorrow and night I 

O sweet, sweet, sweet of the deep still woods. 

Who spoke to me then? O solitudes. 

Far deeper than dream, where the soul has 

birth. 
Did ye open a door into earth? 



44 



He has ceased and the glory grows faint Into 

day; 
It is real again, this heart of the woods — 
Though the flight of the spirit had rapt it away; 
Yet still, in the quiet, a sweetness broods. 

Shadow-green are the ferns, shadow-brown is 

the mould; 
But the checkered coat of the forest old 
Is bright with the morning's new-spun gold. 



45 



FACTORY ]?OEMS 
I. 

The First Going-In 
Under the golden wings of April's light, 

Waiting new life, new beauty, the world lies; 
In me spring's longing, waking eager flight 

In birds, a new adventure satisfies. 
New work awaits me and the sidewalk streams 
With crowds that bear me with them on my 
way; 
Through life's expansion in me, old earth seems 

As freshly made as at the primal day. 
Spring's joy I leave outside the great works' 
gate. 
Nor once look back, reluctant; for the hour 
That brings the soul new needs doth new create 

A spring that puts eternity in flower 
With fruitful blossoms, fairer, nearer, filled 
With joys from which the soul its home doth 
build. 

II. 

At the End of Day 
Before experience has come to guide, 

The novice still, his tread-mill hours must 
pay; 
So I, to dull, mechanic labors tied. 

Watch wearily to greet the end of day; 
Then evening comes; its quiet is a boon; 

Its beauty is a miracle of rest. 
One star shining and the veiled new moon 

Seems but a fairy dream in the dim west. 
I pass out, with the others, through the gate, 
Not wholly cleansed, as yet, from grime and 
soil. 
Life's greatness, nearness makes my heart 
elate; 

46 



For, one among ten thousand men who toil, 
I might touch this one, that one, each would be 
Somewhat myself, and it seems good to me. 

III. 

The Machine Shop 
Soulless it seems, this realm of iron and glass 
With haze-deep reaches. Down the track 
between 
Rows of mechanic monsters now doth pass 
A train of freight cars. Yet from each 
machine 
Rises a rhythmic sound that strives to charm 
My sense with meaning, while, with listless 
power, 
Long, heat-blued shavings, by its steady arm 

Are curled from snoring metal, hour by hour. 
How wide a little space is — here, in view, 

Float the vast cities, vessel-peopled seas. 
Great ships at wharves, Andean ranges blue, 

Prairies, plantations, hive-like factories; 
For East to West that cutting tool doth knit, 
Coldly unconscious, with each swing of it. 

IV. 

Overtime 
All day the flowing belts clapped rhythmic 
hands, 
Broad palmed on whirling pulleys; subtle 
power 
Pulsed through the brushes, till like instant 
brands, 
They glowed and darkened; then the closing 
hour 
Slackened the belts that ran with loosened grips 
And stopped; but ours, that we might not de- 
lay 

47 



Electric sinews built for Russia's ships, 
Swept on the while we added to our day. 

Past midnight still the motors were in cry, 
Like wintry elves — scarce sleepy eyes could 
see 

The gauging needles — then, with cadent sigh, 
They ceased and silence wrapped us utterly. 

We step without the gate and, lo, are drawn 

Into the coming glory of the dawn. 

V. 

The Window of the Testing Shop 
The shop's a nightmare pen. Along it glides 

The crane, an uncouth, servile jhin, that spins 
A chain with hook of steel. And on all sides. 

Blue vapors rise and never-ending dins. 
But at the further end of it a stair 

Leads upward past a window whose wire 
screen 
Lets in a breath of meadow-sweetened air. 
Lets out the sight to summer's world of 
green. 
And there I lingered for a moment near 

The brightly pictured meadow trees to see, 
My brother of the plow at work, and hear 

Faint, silver-sweet, a finch's melody. 
The brick walls were ciissolved and clank and 

pound 
Were hushed in that ethereal sweet sound. 

VL 

The Divine Fire 
Under continued noise and sweaty heat, 

I asked, "My soul, art thou content to lie 
Pent up in narrow bounds that quickly beat 
Earthward, each eagle thought that longs to 
fly?" 

48 



But, quick, a motion did my soul reprove; 

It stirred me to look up, and did reveal, 
Through twelve strong men that bent as one to 
move, 

From lagging start, a sluggish weighted 
wheel. 
That life was bound that it itself might know; 

That life was love and love the fire divine 
In poet and in man — from tautest bow 

The fleetest arrow wings. "Life's fiery wine 
Defends itself," I said. Earth sees the cup 
But heaven the element it holdeth up. 

VII. 

An Autumn Morning 
A cup of golden beauty was this morn 

Spilled from the azure east. The light lay 
glad 
On autumn fields, and if the faint, far horn 

That Dian winds I heard, I was not mad; 
For I was pressing so that prison bar, 

Eye never sees, but heart full-often feels. 
That fairy revel called me near and far 
And all the fields were crossed by golden 
wheels. 
In waves, the joy of the Hesperides 

Besieged the factory whose gates were 
thrown 
Wide to receive the groups and companies 
Who hurried, and I with them; so was 
shown 
Only day's lovely dawn to me. I know 

Naught of the other hours, if sunlight lay 
More brightly still or chilling winds did blow 

Across the blue of heaven the cloudy gray. 
But that one hour let through a joyous gleam 
From endless day beyond the gates of dream. 

49 



VIII. 

The Iron Foundry 
Ever the new! In this strange, littered place, 

Volcanic, of gray drift and fires that roar. 
New worlds are being formed by a young race 

Of gods who, out of glowing vessels, pour 
New-molten iron, the old gods soon will claim: 

For iron is nature's memory — it grips 
Hard on to what it holds; — but when lithe 
flame. 
The wrestler, bends back its fingers, slips 
The treasure down, strange, living gold that 
flows 
In streams of yellow light, while from it 
rise — 
Freed fancies — ere again the fingers close, 

In fountains, fiery winged butterflies: 
And lo, the old takes on the new desire 
Of Prospero, Man, through Ariel, his fire. 

IX. 

Beauty 
There is a beauty near us; it doth shine 

Upon us, through life's withered stock and 
seems 
A present budding of the world divine. 

Hills, meadows, and the still, reflecting 
streams, 
Birds, flowers and all the human heart holds 
dear. 
The very hammers that by men are swung 
Are half eternal, and, at times, I hear 

In voice of whirling wheels a spirit tongue 
That pleads with soul their beauty to make 
plain. 
I cannot serve two masters; these bright hues 
Will fail — a talent hid — if I remain, 

SO 



And if I go, a present good I lose; 
So I, uncertain, neither go nor stay. 
But, still my fear against my love I weigh. 

X. 

The Crowd Spirit 
From the bright shops flows forth the evening 
stream. 
Deep with ten thousand souls, now in the 
light 
Beneath the arc-lamp spheres of crystal gleam, 
Now shadowed by the sharp-tipped wings of 
night. 
Hushed by the winter evening, breathless-still. 

That hides the mild beginning of the snow. 
Few speak aloud; but voice and foot-fall fill 
The place with sound, as when great waters 
flow. 
From near the gate awakes a long halloo; 

Far back, 'tis echoed; then it jumps from tens 
To scores. "What start they now? What 
would they do?" 
I ask, as each wild increment impends. 
Old heads rush in to check it, and, once more, 
The tide flows out as silent as before. 

XI. 

After Promotion 
To rise from shop to office desk was sweet, 
With pleasant labors done with grimeless 
hands 
And prospect widening around the seat 

Of titan Commerce, reaching to far lands; 
But, there, without intrigue or that sharp play 
Of horn and shoulder that doth win the 
prize, 
Or the good home-sap that from day to day 

51 



Permits the spruce of native root to rise, 
I was, by daily growth around me, shent, 

Though beauty more and more my heart did 
thrill; 
Yet, discontented, still I was content, 

With being left behind, for naught could still 
The voice that long within my soul had cried: 
"Here lingers one that had his lord denied." 

XII. 

A Vision of Life 
I have grown strong; this morning, wet with 
dew. 

Two tulips — they were just outside my door, 
A yellow cup, a red — held each a hue, 

Flame-like, of beauty never theirs before. 
Of beauty that was joy, a joy whose sweet 

Gave me back beauty, beauty's life to prove; 
Workward, I passed the city's meanest street, 

But did not see a face God could not love. 
Nor did the lowly, mean things longer seem 

Clothed, as of old, in poverty to me; 
But, freed from pity, were enriched with gleam 

And grandeur by our human destiny. 
Though I should lose this vision, can I lose 
Its truth? For it and not the world I choose. 

XIII. 

Post-Climax 
Where fear alone gives cause for fear, I fear, 

Because of fear denied; I know not why. 
The world has crowns for courage; yet I hear. 

Far off, the laughter even where I lie. 
Oh cool, green grasses, round my hiding face, 

By frolicing. May-children breezes blown, 
Smooth ye this rumpled page of my disgrace. 

Where now the picture of my fear Is shown. 

52 



And sweet-faced Mohawk Valley, now, if ever 
Thou hast been kind to me, lift thou again 

That smile whose beauty never failed to sever 
And coax my heart away from former pain; 

Then to the lonely paths for which I yearn — 

Southward, to meet the mountains I shall turn. 

XIV. 

The Eastern Slope. 
Three days I've been within the mountain 
passes 
And piney glens where holy shadows lay. 
Sat near while sunlight danced on meadow 
grasses. 
And talked with noble men along the way; 
Three days the mountains have my path de- 
fended. 
Like towering waves, with crests of trees and 
sod. 
They might have rolled — so billow-like sus- 
pended — 
Beneath my feet and borne me up to God. 
And, now, the eastern slope behind me lift- 
ing, 
Builds up to heaven in the green, fading 
light; 
Across my path the starry darkness, drifting, 
Hides not the way that, through the present 
night. 
It takes to greet the morning. Though I've 

known 
Deep holes of fear, I have in stature grown. 



53 



PERE JOGUES 

If dreams, that on the shades of night 
Are pictured, prophesy aright, 
Then surely did Pere Jogues see, 
Through eyes of sleep, deep destiny. 

For while on Huron couch of moss 
He slept, he saw, by light of dreams. 

Out of the Iroquois, a cross 
Come toward him over lakes and streams. 

As ever, when a vision makes 
Its message real, the dreamer wakes. 
He started. Boding cross and light 
Passed from the shadows of the night. 
But sleep, though he was calm and still 
Broke not again his wakeful mood; 
He heard far off the whip-poor-will. 
He heard the voices of the wood. 

Scarce seen, it was so faint and thin, 
A breath of misty light, light crept in 
O'er glade and pool; then, flushing through 
The great trees, dawned the morning hue. 
Anon, the full sun's golden light 
Was flung in level beams to bless 
The leafy ways all dewy bright; 
'Twas day in the deep wilderness. 

'Twas day, and strange in that wild dell. 
Was heard the tinkling of a bell; 
But there a wee bark chapel stood, 
Served by the mission brotherhood. 
To them Pere Jogues told his dream; 
They asked: "And was it black and tall, 
This cross?" "Like ebon did it seem?" 
He said: "'T would crucify us all." 

54 



Gravely each looked at each; no name 

So woke in Huron eyes a flame 

Of fear and hate implacable 

As Iroquois; no scourge more fell 

They knew than were those cruel, strong, 

Revengeful lords of wood and lake; 

Relentless as the year is long; 

In ambush, cunning as the snake. 

They asked, but who of dreams can know? 
Ere long, Pere Jogues turned to go 
Homeward across the lakes, to ask 
More helpers in his noble task. 
Awhile, between the blue and blue, 
Safe hidden by the reaches wide. 
His frail barks, to the steersmen true. 
Light hfting, brushed the foam aside. 

Twice twelve times did the day-star faint 
Above their way and dawning paint 
Water and sky, before their eyes,^ 
Saw the old, freindly landmarks rise. 
But there, from where green rushes hid. 
Swam out an Iroquois canoe. 
Another quick behind them slid; 
No flight availed between the two. 

The smoke puffs greyed in morning light; 
The startled water birds took flight. 
Soon bleeding on the rushes lay 
Those wounded who along the way 
Would fail. They were of peace assured. 
The rest, their fortune not so kind. 
Foreknew what must be long endured, 
Ere they as calm a bed could find. 



55 



Through rough woods lay the southward trail, 
And glens where daylight seemed to fail. 
Now openings would show the blue, 
Or sunbeams find a passage through. 
As though to show how sunlight fell 
In France, on lane or garden fair,- 
Or convent walk where solemn bell 
Tolled the calm hours of praise or prayer. 

Far, far away lay cloistered ways 
With chaplet years of quiet days; 
Each high day celebrating some 
Great saint or noble martrydom; 
But in the dim, foreboding wood, 
Removed from symbolizing stole 
And blood-red robe, sweet truth renewed 
The peace in good Pere Jogues' soul. 

The way was rough with thorny spines, 
And, like a host with spears, the pines. 
Both thorn and splinter pierced the blood; 
A red trail followed through the wood. 
Pere Jogues bravely onward strode. 
And scarcely did his burden feel; 
Yet sighed 'neath some companion's load; 
The blow he witnessed made him reel. 

Sweet peace the Mohawk Valley fills; 
In blue, it watches from the hills. 
Beyond a rippled, silvery bend. 
They saw the town, their journey's end; 
But, O, the horde of hags and braves 
That from the grim enclosure pressed. 
With shrill cries under brandished staves: 
"Come, let the captives be caressed!" 



56 



Turn from this passion. Who can tell 
How looks the fire fiend when his hell 
Lets loose ? Yet how forget those eyes 
Bent near in torture glee, or cries 
Flung shrieking, till the sickened mind 
Sees, in its pain, as through a haze, 
Earth reeling, ere that peace it find 
That swoon upon the body lays? 

Then comes delirium's wild night, 
Haunted by pain and dreadful sight 
Of torch and knife and painted face. 
Till cold dawn wakens. Strange the place 
Where the weak, tortured spirit seeks 
Remembered friends and finds — the tribe. 
All this Pere Jogues knew; then weeks 
Of slavery with blow and gibe. 

Yet through the whispering Isles came strength 
To say: "Thy will be done." At length 
For savage pride, In Albany 
The Mohawks let the Burgers see 
Their French slave. Chance of freedom sweet 
Seemed near; he prayed it might not slip 
Unfruitful. The wide village street 
Showed on the stream below, a ship. 

The Burgers looked; then pity moved 

Their hearts; but when his words had proved 

How great his soul was, many a cheek 

Grew red to see him, nobly meek, 

Thus treated. For he bore so well 

His pain that at their doors, a slave 

Of savages, he still could tell 

His story with a spirit brave. 



57 



'Twlxt them and France lay many a thorn, 
And yet, to see him so forlorn. 
Yet brave, the bars aside it swept; 
And, while the gin-full Mohawks slept. 
They freed him. Then, with crafty play 
Of search, they stilled the quick surmise; 
The while Pere Jogues trembling lay 
Among the wee ship's merchandise. 

The winged north wind set him free; 
Soon, on the lonely, white-capped sea. 
Thankful, each night he laid his head 
On coiled ropes, a grateful bed. 
Nor cared how wintry cold the wind. 
For just beyond the ocean's rim. 
Was France; and there he soon would find 
Loved faces that would welcome him. 

Soon sweet through all, his soul was France; 

His home, its trees and green expanse 

Of fields, and sweet the windows bright 

With saintly faces. And the rite 

In which from heaven the spirit gains 

Refreshment, life, was rich increase. 

And was it strange, if, after pains, 

His heart was glad of cloistered peace? 

But night with darkness deep is filled; 
With dreams and visions night is stilled. 
Across his slumber sweeps a dream, 
He hears the tortured victim scream. 
He, too, is bound. Hot pain runs through 
His limbs. The brands against him press. 
He wakens, bathed in clammy dew; 
His cell holds all the wilderness. 



58 



In fear, with every sense employed, 
He reaches groping through the void. 
Quickly his narrow wall he feels, 
Then finds his prie-dieu and kneels. 
Asking God's ruth for souls that die 
So piteously in heathen night. 
Then stops and trembling cries: " 'Tis I, 
I, Lord, that from them hold Thy light." 

The sweat drops bead his face again. 

His vivid mind sees all the pain 

His heart is blind to. Fain to say, 

"I go," fear counsels him to stay, — 

Fear of the torture and despair; 

E'en though his body feed the flame. 

Of an effective service there. 

To teach the Mohawks Love's high name. 

And yet when golden morning beams, 
And sweetly on Christ's picture streams, 
Love, like an ocean, whelms his fears 
And wells up through his soul in tears. 
"Thou goest before me. Lord, I go." 
At length his heart its voice has found. 
Far off he hears: "Come thou, for lo, 
Yonder, a martyr thou art crowned." 



By dawn and sunset touched with rose, 
A silver stream, the Mohawk flows; 
Now resting quiet as the blue 
Beside the hills, now rushing through 
Sharp crags. Its valley seems to hold 
Great joys. These scenes Pere Jogues' eyes 
Last looked on. The fair hills were gold 
And red and green with autumn dyes. 



59 



The wild has gone; an open land 
Shows rounded fields on every hand, 
And fertile flats along the stream 
Where harvests in their season teem. 
And where he died at Auriesville, 
Now thousands come to bend the knee 
Before his shrine upon the hill, 
And pray within its sanctity. 

And there I stood one autumn day 
Watching the pilgrims kneel to pray. 
Though many were of lighter mind. 
Yet some devoutly seemed to find 
Before the shrine increase of power. 
I watched. I did not bend the knee; 
Yet something in the place and hour 
Loaned man a greater dignity. 



60 



LOKE THE DESTROYER 

Fear Is of Loke, sprite of fire, 
Giver of wisdom at the pyre, 
Giver of wisdom through the blaze 
That lights a coward's closing days. 

Yet the heart of earth is fire — 
'Tis no burning of a pyre 
Makes the warmed spring time sweet, 
Helps the growing of the wheat. 

Flame of fear is but a lie 
Open to a Siegfried's eye. 
Fear must die before we see 
Life's now, Its immortality. 



6i 



LEGEND OF THE GUARDED DOOR 
I. 
"God bless this house, from thatch to floor; 
The twelve apostles guard the door; 
Four angels watch above my bed, 
Two at the foot, two at the head." 

This was once a maiden's prayer, 

Said when twilight washed the air. 

Under leafy ways, with green. 

And the fire-fly lights were seen. 

And when this her prayer was said, 

Wrapped within her snowy bed. 

Like a flower in April snows. 

Gently she her eyes would close. 

Gently she would sink to rest. 

Like a sygnet in its nest, 

Whom no mother wing would keep 

Loving charge of through her sleep; 

For Death's bow had winged an arrow. 

Leaving there an unfilled sorrow. 

Yet, when night-drowned pines were whirring 

In the winds she had no fears. 

Had no dread of evil stirring; 

For the stars with holy spears 

Pierced the corners of the wood. 

Deep and full of dream, that stood 

With its shadow-laden boughs 

Drooping round her little house. 

Thirteen seasons she had seen 
Springtime, crowned with melodies, 
Passing, leave upon the trees 
Films of garnet, veils of green. 

Buds of gold, 

That unfold 
Dream that 'gainst the light doth lean. 

62 



Every year a sweeter grace 
Springtime left upon her face. 
Often, they who passed would say, 
"She is like a flower of May," 
And no sweeter flowret grew. 

The bright summer mornings through, 
Just her golden sill within, 
She with busy hands would spin 
At her wheel. The birds would wing 
Thither, at its call, and sing 
To its humming; music sprung 
There in native, sweetest tongue. 
There the sun's most golden shower 
Splashed on thatch and sill and bower. 
Soon, by solemn, dewy night. 
When the forest trees were still, 
When the stars' majestic light 
Deeps in deeps of blue did fill. 
Passing townsfolk saw how bright 
Shone her house among the leaves. 
Saw strange men beneath its eaves. 

They — how could their dull eyes know 
Heavenly beauty when they'd pass 
Heedless by the breathing glow 
Of the glow-worm in the grass? — 
Saw there but an earthly gleam. 
Angel light to them was dream. 
Was it strange that eyes that see 
Naught in night-filled skies above 
Of the heavenly mystery 
Bending over them in love. 
Made apostles seem to be. 

To those men — so sight doth change 

Foreigners whose robes were strange? 



^3 



Yet perhaps the wonder near 
Quickened into joyous fear, 
Opened with its love each heart. 
And perhaps they did not part 
From it ere its beauty wrought 
Something human in their thought. 
Yet, on telHng how they'd seen 
In the maiden's house a hght, 
Like a star-lamp's very bright. 
Reaching through the forest green. 
Breaking through the lace of leaves, 
And the strange men round its eaves, 
All the wonder that remained 
In their hearts grew faint and waned. 

Some, as wounded by it, grieved. 

Sadly were perplexed. A few 

Almost joyously believed 

More than had been told as true. 

Ready minds to find a stain 

Made their own heart-soilure plain. 

II. 

Morning came, it was a boon, 
In her gladdest mood, of June. 
Still-winged clouds were in the blue. 
Perfume breathing, rose the dew. 
Sweet the sunlight, sweet the wind. 
It was strange, indeed, to find 
That fair day, whereas before 
Smiling welcome filled each door. 
Every doorstep now was cold. 
Spite of summer's warming gold. 

Full of joy, as one would bring 
Pleasant news, or some rich thing 
Sure to win a welcome sweet, 

64 



Did the maiden's care-free feet, 
Press along the forest way, — 
Now in shadows green, or bright 
With the flood of morning's light, 
Dappled now where golden day, 
Under gently swaying leaves, 
Light and shadow interweaves. 

As she passed, each living thing, 
Bounding squirrel, bird on wing, 
Seemed to her as though it felt 
The same joy of life that dwelt 
In herself so glad and free. 
Day was just a treasury. 

All around, from glade to glade, 
Rang the notes the thrushes made. 
Sweetest melody until 
Greater sweetness made them still ; 
For, behind a leafy screen, 
A shrill veerie sang, unseen. 
Notes that never could have come 
Save from fair Elisium, 
Save from fields of asphodel. 

Like a statue, 'neath a spell. 
Captured there, her soul in dream. 
Carried out on music's stream. 
Gazed on silver fields of bliss 
Where no sorrow ever is, 
Where no night is and no time; 
Saw the joyous spirit clime 
Just outside the door of day. 

When it dreamed itself away 
Through the golden summer wood, 
There upon the path she stood, 

65 



Hand on heart as half in pain; 
But It did not come again. 
Thoughtfully she passed along, 
Musing of the veerie's song; 
Crossed the brook upon the bridge 
Where the land lay In the sun, 
Toward the rolling slope whose ridge 
Held three oaks, a bastion. 
Twinkling In the summer wind. 
With the blue, blue sky behind. 

There the princess had been kept, — 
Here the scaley dragon slept, 
Waiting for the knight who came, 
Plume and spur and sword of flame. 
Prancing o'er the silvery field 
With the sunlight on his shield. 
All the daisies saw that sight — 
Hearts of gold and petals white — 
'Twas the madness of romance 
Made them toss their heads and dance. 

In a hollow's long, damp grass, 
Slender stems, like Venice glass, 
Sheltered from the wind, held up 
Many a burnished buttercup. 
Lamps of gold for places dim. 
Lamps the happy fairies trim. 
Temple lamps they seemed to be; 
But she did not wait to see. 
Mortal sight was never meant 
For a fairy sacrament. 

Down the vale the village spire, 
With its vane that flashed like fire, 
Looked above the orchard trees. 
Now and then the changing breeze 

66 



Caught the cheery anvil's ring; 
Far and wide the notes did fling. 

Peace along the village street 
Smiled on cottage, hedge and tree. 
Children's voices, rising sweet, 
Notes of youthful jollity. 
Ringed the fancied mulberry bush. 
Hearts were in the merry play 
And the dancing, singing ring 
Ended in a laughing rush. 

Monday was their washing day 
And the other days would bring, 
Ironing and wax candlemaking, 
Spinning, sewing and bread baking. 
Till on Sunday they would pray. 

When she came, a bright-faced lad 
Ran to her with greetings glad; 
But they caught him quick away 
Even from her outstretched arms. 
Mutely, conquered by surprise, 
Thus she stood, her troubled eyes 
Asking, Have I aught that harms? 
Questioning her heart to know 
Why she had been treated so. 
When she slowly turned away. 
Something had bereft the day. 
Cut by sorrow's keenest edge. 
Slow she passed along the hedge, 
All unconscious in her grief. 
That her hand had plucked a leaf. 

The kind vicar by the hand 
Led her to his garden seat. 
Trellis screened, in shadows bland, 

67 



Near his lettuce, bean and beet. 

Freely did she tell her pain. 

All her life to him was plain. 

And no flowret ever grew 

In a glade that was more free 

From all thought of wrong than she; 

Never dancing bell of blue, 

Buttercup or marigold 

Could a simpler tale have told. 

So he blest her, bade her go 

And a face of gladness show. 

III. 

Yet when winds of midnight blew, 
When the grass was wet with dew, 
Candles out and fires all dead, 
Wakeful echoes heard the tread 
Of the vicar bound to see 
For himself this mystery. 

When he'd left the village shadows. 
When he reached the open meadows, 
Owlet, far away, did make, 
Softly, so that none should wake. 
Sounds that pictured the still sweep 
Of the drowsy realm of sleep. 
Silver-faint, the starlight slept 
On the fields where clover bloom 
Lifted up its sweet perfume. 
Till the soft night winds that swept 
Breathed of it; but night was gloom 
To the vicar and not fair — 
Doubting love had brought him there. 

Soon the little house was near, 
Starlight-filled among the leaves, 
And each window, outlined clear, 

6S 



Showed the strange men round its eaves. 

"Can this story, hard, be true?" 

Asked he. Sad doubt pierced him through. 

Till he saw that evil men 

Never moved like these; and then 

Weakness trembled in his knees: 

One bore sword and one bore keys. 

Chilling as a wind he felt 

Wonder near him and he knelt. 

The apostles passed from sight, 

Melted strangely into night 

As he watched them, though the gleam 

Lingered, stranger than a dream. 

Through the wood awoke no sound; 

All the wood was holy ground. 

Calm the silver wonder fell 

Radiant on grass and leaf. 

Calmly did its beauty tell 

Of a beauty past relief 

That it sprung from. Soon 'twould go; 

Quickly must such gladness pass 

From earth's mortal leaf and grass. 

How the vicar longed to know, 

Face to face, the beauty given 

Those who brought the light from heaven 

As he rose, across his way 
Gleamed a ghostly sword blade. "Stay!" 
Spake a solemn voice. "This light 
Doth endanger mortal sight. 
Near Damascus, long ago. 
And at noontide's brightest glow, 
Did the glory thou wouldst see 
Shine with dazzling light on me, 
And they led me from it blind. 
Fearest not some harm in kind?" 

69 



Yet the vicar could not stay, 
For the longing in his heart. 
Did the dwelling melt away? 
Were the stout walls torn apart? 
Bloomed the angels in his sight, 
Great and beautiful and bright. 
And the holy joy that moved them 
Pictured heaven to his mind. 
It was well he greatly loved them, 
Else he had been stricken blind. 
When at length himself he found 
Kneeling far-off on the ground. 

Spirit, through the wonder light 

Reaching, touched his inner sight. 

Now, as though he had been blind 

In the past, his soul did find 

Something just as strange and fair 

Reaching to him everywhere 

Through earth's beauty. Dawning came 

Brightening with golden flame 

Hill and meadow, making bright 

Roof and spire with winged light. 

Till that hour he ne'er had known. 

Of the sky, how blue it shone. 

Never seemed the grass so green. 

Ne'er so lovely smiled the scene. 

Now the maiden never knew 

What great guards, the darkness through, 

Spread their wings above her bed. 

Two at the foot, two at the head. 

Never, waking in the night, 

Saw she the celestial light; 

Ne'er heard voices sweet above. 

Yet she knew that God's great love 

Had her always in its care. 

Day and nio^ht and everywhere. 

70 



TO THE MAKER OF DAYS 

Thou who call'st unnumbered days, 
Nor makest two of them the same, 
Lo, each is Hke a spirit face 

Made bright with heavenly flame. 

This cloud-calmed wintry day is sweet; 
The world is lying white and blue 
Toward snowy hills, and for my feet 
All ways are made anew. 

1 hear a sweet-voiced chickadee 
Send out across the quiet snow 

A heart's clear praises unto Thee, 
That doth Thy bounty know. 

For Thou, in love, a world didst make, 
And Thou didst leave a world unmade. 
That we might labor for love's sake 
In sunlight or in shade. 

And he who working loveth true. 
Who looketh up Thy love to see 
In simple trust, as children Jo, 
Becomes Thy child to Thee. 



71 



FOUR GREAT GODS 

BUDDAH 

Beneath an arbor, built beside 
A river's plashing, mighty tide, 
The pale-green shadows wrest a boon 
Out of the burning heart of noon. 

A double line of cedar trees, 

Rough green, that show no passing breeze. 

On each side, quiet keeps a path 

That scarcely fifty paces hath. 

Reaching from arbor to a hill 

Where rocks are spattered by a rill. 

And which, though low-lands swoon in sheen 

Of noonday, lifts to shadows green. 

Above It, pine trees hide a spring. 
Where shrill birds morn and evening sing, 
And naught breaks noontide's quiet mood. 
Save the wee creatures of the wood. 

On the rough instep of the hill. 

In place made vocal by the rill. 

So old the years have turned him green, 

A marble Buddah sits serene. 

Where shadow is, beneath a tree 
Before him, bends a devotee. 
His head is resting on the ground; 
He has forgot the water's sound; 

He has forgot both pain and bliss; 

He has forgot the life that is. 

Back through the beasts, back through the sod 

He reaches, groping after God. 



75 



On the dark path o'er which man came, 
Stumbling, he calls a mighty name. 
God knoweth well that shadowed way; 
From thence he bringeth into day 

A shadow, dark as night itself: 
Death, smiler at man's powers and pelf. 
From whence that path comes here He knows 
And why, and whither hence it goes. 

The prayer prays and close beside, 
Where leaves and tangled grasses hide, 
A cobra holds its hood of doom — 
The stream falls plashing from the gloom. 

And still the quiet prayer prays 
And counts nor seasons, nights nor days. 
But reaching up, he seeks to find 
The circle of God's mighty mind. 

ORMOZD 
When through bright meadows Hesper rides. 
Night comes whose flowing garment hides 
A shadow multitude of dreams 
That live not under Phosphor's beams. 

Upon a hill that lifts above 
A valley, stirred by hate and love, 
Before a granite fane there stands 
A magus with uplifted hands. 

To the morning star, his song is done; 
He waiteth for the rising sun. 
A silver light full-floods the blue; 
The east has taken tender hue. 



"Behold," he sings, "how Ormozd breaks 
Through night and all the heaven shakes. 
His royal robes are flung before. 
Awake, ye peoples, and adore! 

"In glory beams he hides his face. 
His gaze is into boundless space; 
The royal mantle, purple, sweet. 
Falls, simply, downward to his feet; 

"And see, how bright upon the stream, 
Like flame of gold, his ankles gleam." 
So grand and so sublimely pure, 
He can no more the sight endure; 

He falleth prostrate on the ground. 
And waiteth for the trumpet's sound. 
The music and the mellow dins 
Of cymbals and of violins, 

The rush of hosts that with elan 
Flail the dark tribes of Ahriman. 
The valley stirs and loves and hates; 
Awhile the prostrate magus waits. 

Then rises. It is but the day; 

The usual sun is on his way. 

His heart will not admit despair; 

He turns and trims his fire with prayer. 

ODIN 
Rare beauty falls from evening sky 
On meadow green and mountain high. 
A human longing seems to be 
In the vesper sparrow's melody. 



74 



Across the pasture bars, at gaze 
Upon the sunset's dying rays, 
A farm boy leans — before his eyes 
The splendors of a vision rise. 

'Twas there last night and through the day 
The hours went lumbering away; 
And, now, the light behind the hills, 
Again his splendid vision fills. 

Strong men and bards and ladies fair 
And ships and palaces are there — 
These for to-day and, then, the march 
To Valhall, over rainbow arch. 

The battle in the crimson west 
Has called him and he cannot rest. 
His ears have caught the ringing song 
Dominion singeth to the strong. 

Strength is a god and well may take 
Whatever things have been, and make 
New forms of them, of perfect use 
To build what glorious life he choose. 

Nor, god-like, will he count the price. 
Though like a god's the sacrifice; 
But smiles at conquest in his hands. 
As Vikings laugh on flashing brands. 

And he, whom the great gods will own 
Their son, must stand like them alone, 
Bravely to build against the shock 
Of Fimbul winds and Ragnarock. 



75 



CHRIST 

Like useful vessels made of clay, 
Above earth's green, two chimneys, gray, 
Lift up and heaven's blue provoke 
With globes of thick, bitumen smoke. 

Before our eyes accept the gloom 
Within the forge's filmy room, 
But furnace mouths, like plaques of light, 
We see and metal heated bright. 

Then faces and strong arms, that glow 
In the firelight, passing to and fro. 
The cranes and heavy tools among, 
And that all workmen here are young. 

Outside, the meadowed hills are bright 
And goodly fair in summer's light, 
And bob-o-lincoln's song is sweet 
Above the emerald of the wheat. 

He breasts the air on quiet wings. 
Over the roadside field and sings 
His melody. The sky is blue 
And softly clouds are creeping through. 

Within, the noisy hammers fall. 
Iron ringing iron, and foreman call. 
Strong shoulders backward swing and strain 
To give its sinews to the chain. 

My life to thee and thine to me 
And thou in me and I in thee. 
How soul is victor over pain! 
Clang, clang, tve pound upon the chain. 



76 



Day looketh toward the setting sun. 

The whistle blows and work is done. 

A thousand men, but half-elate, 

Wend homeward, trooping through the gate. 

And some are free and laugh in pride 
And some are still preoccupied. 
Some bitter are with Avhat they bear 
And some are heavy with despair. 

Ah, me ! Yet some have eyes serene, 
That seem assured that God doth mean. 
Through life's perplexing ills, to prove 
And give some deeper word for love. 



77 



THE CITY-BOUND 
I. 

O day, O golden sunlight, is it true? 
Or is this room with these long desks a dream? 
The many different heads bent o'er them seem 
Phantoms of failure! What hard fate doth mew 
These men addressers here the long hours 

through, 
And at a wage proud Vulcan's sons would deem 
Scant for adventures under hope's bright beam? 
Does the world lack man's work for men to do? 
The world, it lieth bright beneath thine eye; 
Thou seest river, forest, farm and dale, 
And all the ways where brave men win and 

fail. 
The troubled ocean, plain and mountain high. 
Hark, in my dream I hear the rap again 
Of sunlight arrows on the window pane. 

II. 

Life is the soul's and some regard this place 
As monks their cloister, while, it seems to me, 
They set forth Youth and Age, A Mystery, 
Full of deep meanings. Here clear eyes might 

trace 
Life's old adventures stamped on many a face. 
Refinements, weaknesses. My vis-a-vis. 
At times while writing, mutters bitterly 
Of money in the bank; and there's a grace 
Round my old neighbor's lips that maketh plain 
A heart in disappointment growing kind; 
And here youth's troubled eyes show forth a 

mind 
Startled by finding life's quick nerve of pain. 
O living gleam, thou knowest why I am here. 
Save me with sight ! Clothe me with vision 

clear ! 

78 



III. 

I asked, Is this a trap that life hath set 
With sharp advice, that laggard youth might 

know 
The difference between the ringing blow 
That thrills a pioneer and the dull fret 
Of failure in old age? A stone to whet 
Youth's resolution? Then a glance did show 
That life by no such simple rule doth go. 
Grey-haired incompetence is here; and yet 
Some here have lips once salty with the spray 
Of great adventure where life's brave hearts 

lead, 
And fates they could not change have barred 

the way; 
And some have been too human to succeed. 
With horn and shoulder at the trough, and 

hence, 
Though saving naught, show the more compe- 
tence. 

IV. 
To-day, when, palest blue, those buildings tall, 
That seem set on a hill, might have been rose 
With morning's promise, and the firstling flows 
Of day's great tide were passing City Hall, 
Through chilling winds, the snow began to fall 
In icy particles; the hats of those 
Who came in last were white. And now the snows 
That beat in gusts against the windov/ call 
Pictures that float before me while I write : 
The snowy train-man fighting winds that 

freeze, 
The schooner, icy prowed and decked with white, 
Plunging all day in frothy, silk-green seas. 
Sphered from the winter wind and bitter foam, 
The cosy warmth makes this place seem a 

home. 

79 



V. 

Down in the purple street, the windows, bright, 
Are trimmed with pine and holly green and 

red. 
And, as glad Christmas Eve grows deeper, 

spread 
Their glow on faces glad; and joys excite 
New joys, that brighter make the season'* 

light. 
Street beggars throve where early thousands 

sped 
Upon their homeward ways. Here, lamps 

still shed 
Their beams, like tents, beneath the edge of 

night. 
Above day's busy working-hours; and when 
It was announced, our closing Christmas Day, 
One, quick up-glancing, asked in bitter play: 
"How shall we buy our Christmas dinner 

then?" 
Thereat some laughed, none answered; and it 

seemed 
That in the room a moment's grandeur 

gleamed. 



?0 



A WINTER SUNSET, RIVERSIDE 
DRIVE 

This scene was set for beauty; soft and white, 
Or blue or touched with rose, lies the new 

snow 
On the wide banks and on each creeping floe 
Of ice, borne by the tide, round which the 

bright 
Sunset has cast a net — O joyous sight! — 
Of gold, green, purple, bronze and ruby-glow. 
Glad faces pass, and dome and dwelling show. 
Under pale heaven, the touch of tender light. 
O thou art fair. New York! Thy lowliest hall 
Is robed in wondrous garments of the sky 
By evening's lavish hand. The musing eye 
Meets stairs that leap from roof to tower and 

call 
Youth's dream from narrow street to azure 

wide. 
While thou art sitting, beauteous as a bride. 



8i 



ODE ON WAR 

There is a fiery serpent, Pride; it sleeps 
In the deep pits of mighty nations' hearts; 
But ever, at its wind and moon, it creeps 
Through senate chambers, pulpits, streets and 

marts, 
Unseen, except a flickering, bright tongue. 
Yet, when it strikes, it makes the people mad; 
It makes the press a flame. Then wildly rung 
Are bells from tower to tower, while, glory- 
clad, 
Hate, like an angel, goeth down to war 
With fifes that cry and drums around his car. 

Serpents have been that worked much harm to 

lands. 
Great Pytho wasted Delphos' rocky shore 
And he was killed; but not by gold-lined hands 
Of ship-borne merchants, that there might be 

more 
Produce to barter for and greater gain 
To traffickers. 'Twas from the sunbeam bow 
Of gleam-haired Loxias, the shaft was flown 
That pierced the python's head. Where he 

was slain 
A noble temple rose and hollow stone 
Breathed prophecy from solemn deeps below. 

There is a beast with dripping, snow-white 

fangs. 
The saber-toothed, whose lips and hairs are red 
With the rich blood of youths. Amid the 

clangs 
Of brass and iron, he proudly rears his head 
Like some harsh monarch who red war doth 

wage 

5? 



Around a burning town. Beneath his throat 
And round his great and brightly mottled paw 
The banners of proud nations sway and float, 
Nations that march their sons to fill his maw. 
The bloody tiger's name is Battle Rage. 

Strong men have been who fought with beasts 

and freed 
Their kind from ravage, making once more 

glad 
Rich lands that, under some huge monster's 

breed, 
Lay burned with desolation, drear and sad. 
And when they passed, no more the presence 

filled 
The vales with silent dread too deep for words; 
Safe was the highway, safe the man who tilled 
The native fields, and safe the flocks and herds. 
Yet no war-fearing, weakling men were these; 
But strong, red-blooded sons of Hercules. 

There sits a tyrant at the hearth and home 
Of every nation brandishing red spears, 
A brazen fate that wills that news shall come 
And chooses for this heart and that heart, 

tears. 
"Open this letter, for my hands are weak. 
Who sends it from the front?" "Quick, read 

this list. 
The paper says four battleships were lost, 
Six regiments destroyed. I dare not seek 
Him with the slain beneath the gun-breathed 

mist, 
Nor with the strewn ones, by the billows 

tossed." 



83 



Yet, look, upon the scroll of noble names, 
That brightest shine m heaven and in earth. 
How many have been forged In war's red 

flames, 
And, in its stress and strain, have proved their 

worth ! 
I see great Washington upon his knees 
At Valley Forge. I see that noble face 
In whose sad kindness is forever shown 
A people's sorrow. How much added grace 
Has life since these great warriors of peace, 
'Gainst whom, as blood-stained, little man did 

moan ! 

And there, against the hills of morning, stands 
Proud War, the red-robed tyrant. Under him 
The deep-voiced thunders roll, and In his 

hands 
Flashes of levin gleam. The place grows dim. 
As 'neath a leaden storm; but see, his eyes 
Are white with madness, and his bony feet. 
Shown through his wind-blown robe, are stark 

as death. 
Up to his ragged knees and swollen thighs, 
Putrid with gangrene. The morning's sweet 
Wind chokes beneath the burden of his breath. 



84 



O SWEET LITTLE VILLAGE 

What pleasure more real, when our first youth 

has flown, 
Than to call back the days that our childhood 

has known? 
And what to my heart brings a happier dream 
Than my childhood in thee, little town by the 

stream? 

CHORUS. 

O town of my childhood, how many a joy 
Was mine on thy meadows when I was a boy? 
My heart knew thy beauty of tillage and tree, 
O sweet, little village, my dream is of thee. 

But where Is the smithy? Within Its wide door 
The hammer sweet clamored — I hear it no 

more. 
Old meadows are closed where summer noon 

shone; 
New faces are here, but old faces are gone. 

And where Is the oak tree where often I 

played? 
Its great leafy head by the woodman is laid. 
No more the mild breezes of summer will come 
To sing in Its branches and ruffle Its dome. 

O sweet, little village, time hurries away. 
The glad hour of childhood what magic can 

stay? 
But my treasure in thee no fate can destroy 
Nor dull the bright dream of when I was a 

boy. 



85 



SWEET EMOGENE 

Once a little girl I knew, 

She was sweet as pleasant weather, 
Bright as May, her eyes of blue, 

O the days we walked together. 

CHORUS 

Emogene, sweet Emogene, 
Never was another lassie 
Quite so like a fairy queen. 
O the days we walked together 
Over meadows bright and green! 

When the birds were in the sky, 
Buttercups the fields adorning. 

Often would I ask if I 

Might not walk with her that morning. 

And a buttercup of gold 

Once I held, my heart a-flutter. 

Underneath her chin; it told. 

Plainly, she was fond of butter. 

When, on daisy petals white. 

Once she was my fortune telling — 

"Loves me not, he loves me," — bright, 
In my heart the joy was dwelling. 

Oft from meadow clocks we blew 

Dandelion seed a-skying. 
Little of their worth we knew 

When we sent the bright hours flying. 



86 



FROM THE JAPANESE 

I sat in my study reading, 

In the solitude of night, 
A story that showed life's beauty 

When the world was fresh and bright. 

I heard outside, in the garden. 
The rivulet, sweet and clear. 

Of a nightingale's song, bringing 
The bright world strangely near. 

I opened the lattice and listened ; 

The garden in silence lay; 
I saw but the cold moon hanging 

In the deep sky, far away. 



COURTESY 

Joiner of broken ends, 

Smoother of tangled skeins. 

Breathe thou where discord strains; 

Lo, like a balm, it sends 

The spirit of joy for a mile, 

!!\nd work-a-day love with a smile. 

Thou art the breath of love 
Breathing its sweet desire. 
Thou art the tune of the lyre 
That friendship's sympathies move. 
Who giveth thy melody wing 
Awakens a heavenly string. 



•87 



GENIUS 

\ 
Blest son of genius, what high crowned day 
Lifted thee up, new born, that all days hold 
Thee as their ruler and before thee lay 
Tribute of fruits and precious gems and gold? 
What influence, God-given, gave to thee 
Efficient strength and intellect and sight? 
What weakens, shackles others, sets thee free; 
Where others fail thy forehead greets the light. 
God's dreams are seas and mountains. Thou 

dost dream 
Of ships and cities. Who from thy dream 

take 
Their dream, their work, thou as thyself doth 

deem; 
Who dreams not in thy dream thou must for- 
sake. 
Thrice blest, if thou like God true service give. 
Thee and the land that sees thy great dreams 
live. 



88 



PENIEL 

No prayer that weakens, Lord, is wrung from 

me; 
Foot against foot, hand pressing hard on hand, 
I struggle with Thee on the darkened sand, 
Nor will relax, though night should lengthened 

be. 
Yet, for against the eastern sky I see 
The lift of dawn, once more I make demand 
For what Thine own heart best will under- 
stand. 
Seeing the power to struggle comes from Thee. 
Bless me Thou must before I let Thee go; 
Touch me Thou wilt; what mortal walks not 

lame? 
And yet immortal is the ruddy glow 
That warms within my heart to burst in flame. 
Thou needst not man's labor; it is I 
That needs must struggle with Thee till I die. 



^89 



FOUR LOVE POEMS 

LOVE, LET ME WALK WITH YOU 

Love, let me walk with you, 

Love, let me silent be. 
While the great stars fill the heaven above 

With glimmering majesty. 

God giveth the great stars names, 

Sweet names we cannot know; 
But, love, when I hear your footsteps near, 

As light as the airs that blow, 
They fill my heart with the joy of light 

That is from eternity; 
And my soul is glad of their mystic names. 

When, love, you walk with me. 



HAUNTED 
Now April woods are bright with marigolds 
And sunlight-arums green the marshy ground; 
But, O, beyond flame colors or the sound 
Of bluebird song, so ringing sweet it holds 
Spring's very heart, across the grassy wolds 
And through the woods, bright-leafed and gar- 
net crowned, 
The magic spell of one sweet name is wound 
Through light and air, and winds mc in its 

folds. 
'Tis here and everywhere, and can I say 
The bending wood path hides her? Is she 

there 
Where the green meadow dips again away 
Beyond the rise? There swallows in the air 
Weave, eager-winged, the same sweet spell. It 

makes 
My heart grow limp with longing that it wakes. 

90 



IN NEW YORK 
Lady, at hour of violet-washed air, 
Just at the close of day, oft when I go 
Where New York ladies, through the fading 

glow, 
Bring colors sweet and make the sidewalk fair. 
By great shop windows and across the square, 
Where wintry trees their purple branches show, 
My heart's-hope thinks it sees thee; but I know 
Its tricks too well to trust that thou art there. 
And once or twice, upon the pounding street, 
I've heard right close behind me, soft and 

sweet, 
A voice that thee, within me, pictured plain. 
Then did my spirit tremble as in fear. 
Perhaps from too much hoping and thou wast 

near, 
Perhaps from too well knowing hope was vain. 



LIGHT WITHOUT WARMTH 

To-night, I walk beneath the darkened pines 
Where, through the opening branches, starry 

spears 
Seem, in their beauty, fain to reach the tears 
My heart as fain would give. Bright o'er me 

shines 
Love's star of wonder; yet my soul divines, 
In all its radiance no beam that cheers. 
For, now, as in cold armor, it appears 
Shorn of the light of love's majestic signs. 
O stars, last night ye poured upon my heart 
Fond hopes that for a while deceived my pain; 
O stair of beauty, now so steep thou art 
That, wingless, mounting up by thee were vain. 
Love's windows, all agleam, seem but to be 
Thrusting intruding darkness back on me. 

91 



COMMUNION OF THE SAINTS 

Heaven's deep immortal fountains overflow 
And sprinkle earth each night with holy dew. 
Seven million mornings come, and still they 
show 

God's manna, ever fresh and ever new; 
Yet life to us this picture doth unfold: — 
One generation proves its faith as true; 

The next one finds the manna filled with mould 
And utters famished sighs; then comes the 

third. 
Hearing of mythic glory, given of old, 

It proves it on God's face and lo, the 

Word, 
On which the world was founded, still is stand- 
ing- 
Truth is not pictured by a passing bird; 
But still holds life through pinion-wide expand- 
ing. 



92 



SONNET 

A youth there was who, in his young man's 

pride, 
And love of high adventure and of sound — 
Such as Manilla Bay gave, half-way 'round 
The world, to lift emotion like a tide — 
Could not, in martial days, near fifes abide. 
But 'gainst their shrill farewells, his heart 

would leap, 
So learned how joyous is the rhythmic sweep 
Of marching with brave comrades at his side; 
But where night-guardsmen see, o'er tropic 

wave, 
Faint purple lightning sweep or, through the 

trees, 
The impetuous sun fling wide dawn's mysteries, 
A deeper joy the fair, loved banner gave. 
Stirred first he was by love of stir and fame. 
Then love of country warmed him like a flame. 



93 



AUTUMN 

A mystical, deep-musing gladness fills 
October's quiet! Lo, at close of day, 
When, from the trees, the sun doth lift away 
His golden beams, my raptured spirit thrills 
At great, blue angels seated on the hills 
In beauty, and, among the oak tree's fires, 
Vague faces as of heavenly desires, 
Whose presence all the leafy wild-wood stills. 
For, as the water's calm reflecting shows 
More beauty than the painted forest knows, 
So, for I too am stilled, 'tis given to me, 
Long as this hour of twilight shall endure. 
To walk untrammeled in the company 
Of mighty spirits, venerable and pure. 



STARSET 



O evening star, I saw thee, clear and bright. 

Above the western hills. A fairy beam 

Bent downward like a spear-shaft to the 

stream. 
And from its point a flimsy skein of light 
Was woven on the waters, dark with night. 
Thy silver splendor made the valley seem 
Unreal, as though, far off, I slept and dream 
Was holding more than earth before my sight; 
For I was conscious of the presence near 
Of beauty seldom seen and soon to go. 
With such forgetful joy as mystics know 
In their companion visions. Then the spear 
Was lifted; thou didst set. The light that 

shone 
Returned to heaven. Wondering, I stood alone. 

94 



TO A FRIEND WITH "THE LIFE OF 
THE BEE" 

This book from nature, for a quiet hour, 
I send to you. Perhaps when noonday shines 
With ardent beam on lake and margent pines. 
You may seek out some shaded, mossy bower 
For its perusal; or, when passing shower 
Gives patter to your cabin's roof and pane 
And sets the woodways dripping with the rain, 
Find here a refuge from its chilling power; 
For here are dewy fields and gardens warm 
In morning sunlight, and the workers' tune, 
Hummed busily, from flower to flower, at noon, 
And the reverential buzzing of the swarm. 
And somewhat else is here, atune to please 
Your meditative walk beneath the trees. 



TO A SUMMER BREEZE 

Blow, summer wind, and make the branches 

sway 
Around this meadow brown, where Tim and I, 
In the hot sun, are piling wide and high 
Upon our wagon's arms this new-mown hay. 
Sweet-breathed with the dried clover-tops of 

May 
And aromatic stems. 'Neath the blue sky 
No leaf is stirring, and the butterfly 
Is neither helped nor hindered on its way. 
Blow, summer breeze; Tim says you ever shun 
Sun-beaten meadows when the hay is made. 
Breathe on this field and, when bright day is 

done, 
And dewy twilight on the hill is laid, 
Here will be waiting many a sweet wing-load 
Xo waft through lanes and down the quiet road. 

5i 



ON THE CARIBBEAN SEA 

Drift by, in all the forms you take, 
Oh, great cosmogony of clouds ! 

The fingers of the winds awake 
Fit music in the shrouds. 

As waters slip along the keel. 

From stem to stern, the hours slip by. 

What weight they have I do not feel 
Nor note them as they fly. 

The east is touched with pink and gray; 

The sun lifts up his glorious head. 
Both sea and sky at close of day 

Are doubly dyed with red. 

And every day is opal fair 

With rainbow hues both bright and clear. 
If mermaid singeth anywhere. 

She surely singeth here. 



96 



OCT 21 1913 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

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